


as the world caves in

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MAG191-What We Lose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28896891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: Martin squeezes the life out of every moment, forcing himself to remember every detail, even the dank walls of the tunnels and the distant scent of mold, because...well, it’s like they talked about. This could be it, so Martin’d better remember it clearly, since--since it could be the last peaceful memory of Jon he ever has left to hang onto.(The tunnels, a tin of peaches, and a difficult conversation)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 114





	as the world caves in

**Author's Note:**

> MAG191 kicked my ASS, especially the, well, _that_ jonmartin conversation, so naturally I had to write something. Hope you enjoy <3

Martin doesn’t know how exactly to mark time underground (not that he knew how to mark time above ground, not in the state the world’s in), so he doesn’t try. It’s not as if it matters much, not now that they’re in the home stretch.

He sleeps when he gets too unsettled watching Jon thrash in and out of unconsciousness with wide-open and long-distant eyes, and he eats when he gets restless and wants a bit of a wander. It’s nice to have a routine that involves something other than endlessly walking, even if it’s not all that exciting.

Cuddling’s nice as well. It was nice at Upton House, but it feels strange to Martin to look back fondly on things he did with Jon that Jon can’t even remember. Almost violating, somehow, like it wasn’t really Jon. Martin knows that’s a stupid, untrue thought--if anything it was  _ more _ Jon than Martin’s seen him since before everything started its long, steep slide to hell--but he can’t stop it all the same.

Still, nice to have it back. Nice to hold Jon tight against his chest, Jon trapping his arm between his stomach and his legs as he curls up. Martin squeezes the life out of every moment, forcing himself to remember every detail, even the dank walls of the tunnels and the distant scent of mold, because...well, it’s like they talked about. This could be it, so Martin’d better remember it clearly, since--since it could be the last peaceful memory of Jon he ever has left to hang onto.

He’s trying his best to keep himself together. The last thing anyone needs is for him to have a meltdown. If these really are going to be his last memories with Jon, he’s going to do his damndest to keep them as bright as possible under the circumstances.

Jon mutters something soft, twitching, and Martin whispers a reflexive ‘what was that, love?’, as if he expects Jon to answer in his sleep. Jon thrashes out against him, blindly and ineffectually, and dream-slurs what Martin can make out as _I said_ _don’t touch me_ and Martin untangles himself from around Jon, slowly, trying not to wake him, hand pressed over his mouth so he doesn’t make any of the pained sounds he badly wants to.

It’s not personal. How could it be, Jon’s not even awake. Martin tries not to let it sting, his stupid blind jealousy never gets anyone anywhere. He can’t be here right now, though, can’t watch Jon suffer through another nightmare that he’s much too late to protect him from the source of and is utterly powerless to prevent.

He wanders off in the direction of food, hoping that by the time he collects a few mystery tins and finds his way back to Jon the hiccupping sobs he’s firmly trapping in his chest will fade away and he’ll be able to breathe normally again. He doesn’t run into any cultists, which is a blessing, because he’s truly not sure he could stop himself from snapping in the state he’s in.

He grabs a random tin, and spares the area around him a longer look than he has been. Thinks briefly about Jurgen Leitner stuck down here, and the idea gives him chest-closing claustrophobia, flashing on the worms outside his flat, and the long, dark, terrified hours. Leitner deserved it, and he deserved the beating Gerard Keay gave him, if not the one from Jonah, but it still feels strange to have a moment of solidarity with the man, asynchronous and distant as it is.

He tries to breathe it out, in through the nose and out through the mouth, trying to let the intrusive thoughts of being trapped just wash through him, like he heard in some stupid meditation tape back when he was still trying to fix himself, like that was something he could do with basic internet self-help and a fucking diet. Learning how much of an unadulterated unending nightmare the world is was freeing, in a way. At least he couldn’t be expected to be the arbiter of his own emotional state anymore.

It’s all going to be over soon, anyway, one way or another. That’s something to hold onto. He’s going to get to see the sun again, breathe fresh air that isn’t tainted with loving mold and hateful blood and rotting death--that’s something, isn’t it? He’ll be able to write again, because there will be actual beauty in the world to inspire him.

Well, actual beauty that isn’t Jon. Jon’s the only muse he’d ever need, even though he’d laugh at Martin endlessly for saying that. And, besides, he can’t count on that lasting. And he can’t give up writing, not if it ends up being the only thing he’s left with for comfort, after...after.

Besides, if...if Jon’s gone, someone’s gonna need to remember him properly, and it’s not as if Martin’s a  _ great _ writer, but he thinks the sheer amount he loves Jon might make up for that. If he can make anyone understand how he feels even just a little, that’s a success.

He shouldn’t even be thinking about this. He shouldn’t already be making plans for how to cope without Jon, not--not while he’s still here. He should be with him. They should--

He starts walking back to where he and Jon have been staying without thinking about it, his feet carrying him as quickly as he can go without running, one hand trailing the wall, the other still absently holding the unlabeled tin.

Jon’s awake by the time Martin gets there, hugging himself, and he looks so gaunt and thin Martin’s breath catches, clothes he used to fit perfectly several years ago hanging off him. Martin noticed, of course, he must’ve, but it feels clearer now. He’s fading. Everything is.

“Where’d you go?” Jon asks, a bit blearily, giving Martin a weak, distant smile. “I missed you.”

“Just went to get food,” Martin says, laughing nervously and shrugging, digging a can opener and fork out of his backpack on the floor and sitting down.

“I still can’t believe you brought kitchen implements with us,” Jon says, smirking faintly, and Martin shrugs again.

“Can’t ever be overprepared,” he says, softly. “You know, I had a guy tell me I was paranoid for having so much tinned food stored in my flat, but who’s laughing now?”

“If he didn’t get besieged by worms, probably him,” Jon says, clearly meant to be a joke, but the words twist as they come out of his mouth, almost sounding like pity.

“Well, probably not,” Martin says. “Considering he’s likely stuck in a domain somewhere."

“I think it’s safe to say no one’s laughing,” Jon says, quietly and flatly. 

Martin manages to wrench the tin open and sticks the fork in without looking. “Getting into the spirit of the mystery,” he says, as an explanation, because Jon looks a bit quizzically at him.

“Carry on, I’m not judging.” Jon laughs, eyes soft.

Martin closes his eyes, stabs something in the tin with his fork, and takes a bite and--

Peaches. Sweet and too-soft and syrupy and cloying and everything he’s glad he isn’t anymore and every moment trapped in his apartment hoping he wouldn’t die there alone and unloved and he can’t do this anymore he can’t keep up the front he can’t he can’t he  _ can’t _ .

He drops the tin and the fork, feeling the juice from the peaches soak into his shoe, and tries to breathe, tears welling hot and stinging in his eyes.

“Martin,” Jon says, hand pressed into his shoulder, curling his entire body against Martin’s side. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Fucking peaches,” Martin says, trying to keep his breaths even, trying not to let them go ragged so he can’t even speak, trying not to start crying and get swept up in it like a whitewater rapid that drags him under.

“Oh,” Jon breathes, and Martin feels an absurd swell of gratitude that he understands from just that. 

“It’s fine,” Martin says, sniffing hard. 

“Martin…”

“I don’t want to lose you.” The words slip out before he can stop them. “Not--not so soon. Not...I got so  _ used _ to the idea of losing you for  _ so  _ long, Jon, I mean,  _ so _ many years, I  _ did _ lose you, over and over, and now--now you’re--you’re not  _ mine _ , I don’t  _ own _ you, but--but I don’t want you to--”

“I  _ am _ yours, Martin, if you want me to be,” Jon says, softly. “I don’t want to lose you either. I...I’m sorry I waited so long to…” He sighs. “You were decisive and introspective and brave, I think. You decided to love me no matter the consequences. I imagine that hurt like hell.”

“It did,” Martin says, laughing a bit hysterically because it hurts less than crying.

“I wasn’t brave enough for that. I...it’s my fault we haven’t had enough time. I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t--” Martin sighs, shaking his head. “Let’s just...let’s savor what we have, right? There’s nothing else we  _ can _ do, and I mean, it  _ could _ all be--” 

He’s going to finish with  _ fine _ , but Jon’s face tells him the chances of that are slim to none, which he knew, but. He chokes on a sob, and presses his hand over his mouth, tears finally welling over.

“I love you,” Jon breathes, taking Martin’s hand and pulling it down with both of his. Martin tries to say it back, but he can’t push words out through constricted, seizing lungs, fighting not to completely shatter, even though he knows, for once, that he’d be safe to do so. “When--when the world’s back, where do you think we should go? I don’t think I’ll be able to handle England anymore, not...not after all this. I think...I’d like Japan? Maybe too many people, though. Would you prefer a coast or a forest somewhere, do you think?”

“Stop it,” Martin manages, feeling disgusting as he tries to breathe down snot. “Don’t--don’t make plans, Jon, there’s…” He shakes his head.

“I’d like to have something to look forward to in the event I do actually make it out,” Jon says, softly. “I deserve hope as well. Maybe you’re not the only romantic.”

“Can’t...can’t it be enough to just hope we both survive and figure it out from there?” Martin asks. “Think about it. We turn the world back and the sun rises--actually  _ rises _ \--and we’re free. We can go anywhere. Why plan in advance?”

“Fair point,” Jon says, nearly smiling, leaning his head on Martin’s shoulder. 

Martin wants to say a lot of things, but all of them feel like admissions of defeat, like he’s surrendering to hopelessness too early, like he’s already starting to mourn for Jon. So he doesn’t say anything. Just breathes. Just listens to Jon breathing. Just soaks in the moment before it’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. All feedback is greatly appreciated <3  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend


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